


Tales on the Rust Sea

by TheDarkSideofEnergon



Series: AUgust Insanity [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, tags will be updated as fic progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkSideofEnergon/pseuds/TheDarkSideofEnergon
Summary: Ratchet, a medic in the Prime’s Navy, has been given a choice: join the pirates or die. The pirate ship, captained by Drift, claims to be on the side of good, fighting against everything Ratchet has ever believed. Now, torn between wanting to find out the truth and wanting to return to his old, comfortable life, Ratchet must make a decision of who he will be traitor to: the Prime he swore an oath to, or the pirate captain that has captured him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of the first chapter is a repost from Day 24 of Transforming AUgust, however, it is slightly edited and there are additional details sprinkled in here and there because of developing ideas. The second half is entirely new content.
> 
> SlimReaper is at least partly to blame for everything past the original first chapter. :D Thanks for the plot bunny infestation. <3

“I need the wrench _ now _!” Ratchet shouted as the ship rocked again, forcing him to brace himself against the medberth and his patient, keeping both them and himself in place as the plasma cannons tore holes in the hull of the ship, letting both the air and the rustwater in. The diplomat -- the patient currently on his table -- had been topside when the first shots had come in. He’d, unfortunately, also been in the direct path of one of them. As a result, Ratchet doubted the diplomat would survive, but he was going to try his hardest to save him anyway. That was his oath as a doctor, and he would uphold it come pits or high water. 

Or pirates, apparently. The diplomatic flag evidently meant nothing in these waters.

His assistant had just handed him two different wrenches, clearly unsure of which he wanted, when the blaster fire ripped through the door, shrapnel hitting the assistant as Ratchet felt the diplomat’s spark gutter and go out. Knowing there was nothing left to do, Ratchet took aim with the wrenches and let fly. 

_ Clang. Clang _. Both hit their targets, the first two mechs through the door into his medbay. Ratchet was reaching for another when the third one in line dashed in and whacked him over the helm with the hilt of his pistol, knocking him out cold.

When he came to, Ratchet was on the deck of the ship, a serious dent in his helm and hands tied behind his back. Looking around, he could tell that a significant amount of the crew was offline or close to it, only a few of the crew of nearly a hundred still surviving. All were in the same position as he, and their attackers had thoroughly bound them all. They were currently going through the ship stores, transporting what they wanted to their own ship and leaving the rest behind. Looking around, Ratchet spotted two mechs, one red and one yellow, rubbing their helms and glancing over at him balefully every now and then. He smirked. Good. They deserved a little pain.

Not much else happened for a solid ten breems, the sun beating down on them as they laid there and the pirates sorted through the ship. Ratchet saw the medical supplies get taken across. Extra sails, parts, energon. Why would they be interested in that, and not the more valuable gold and silver? Sure, some of that went across too, but not as much as Ratchet thought they would take. Unless this was just the last of it.

Then a new mech stepped across the bridge between their ships, and the pirates all saluted. Ratchet examined the newcomer. White and red, his wide-brimmed hat covered his optics from the mid-orn sun. It was clear this was the mech in charge. Another crewman came along and dragged all the prisoners to their pedes, forcing them into a straight line. Ratchet ended up at the end. The pirate captain stalked along it, before starting at the opposite end, pulling the unfortunate mech along to the edge. Ratchet recognized him as the first mate, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the mech’s name. They stood there for a moment, soft voices filtering over to Ratchet as the rest of the pirates got back to work. Then the pirate shoved the mech he was speaking to off the ship. 

Ratchet bit back his cry of horror. He’d just _ murdered _ that mech. Even if they survived the initial shock, with hands bound as they were, the sharkticons or rust infections would get them before long, if they couldn’t make it to the island that Ratchet could see on the horizon. Drowning was the easiest way to go. 

A small part of Ratchet’s processor hoped he could convince the pirate captain that he would be more valuable alive than not, but the rest said he should deactivate with honor, as a medic in the Prime’s Navy should. Still, sharkticons, drowning, or rust did not appeal to him at all. He watched, increasingly horrified and furious as each of the remaining crew members was subjected to the same treatment. Some ran from the captain, flinging themselves into the sea. Some heard him out, then looked back and stepped off. One asked a question, and when the captain replied with a shake of his head, he spat in his face before jumping. 

Ratchet stood there, chin held high despite having his hands tied behind his back. If he would deactivate, it would be with dignity. He did not try to look at the captain as he got closer and closer to Ratchet’s place, even when he grabbed the last one next to Ratchet.

It was a short conversation. The mech was unceremoniously shoved off, and the captain turned to Ratchet, stalking over. He grabbed the medic’s shoulder and dragged him to the edge. They stood there in silence for a klik, then the captain spoke.

“I’m Drift.” The voice was soft, almost youthful. Now Ratchet could see his blue optics, and they only added to the effect. “I don’t want to do this, but the Prime’s Navy has been making life difficult. Still, killing unwarned, innocent mechs doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Says the mech who just attacked a diplomatic ship and shoved two dozen mechs to their doom, _ including _ the first mate.” Ratchet snarked, and the captain glared at him. Ratchet glared right back, and the two stood there, the captain’s hand twitching. “If it bothers you that much, why do it?”

“Because my people have been struggling to survive for eons, and now Sentinel thinks he can waltz right in and take our resources for himself, for the elite.” Drift gestured. “You see those islands out there? That’s my home. We’re hardly pirates, just a defense force. And your crew chose their fates. If you noticed, over half of them refused to hear me out and jumped off.”

“You prey on merchants and Navy, and apparently, diplomatic ships now.” Ratchet pointed out, ignoring the last part of Drift’s argument. He was going to deactivate anyway, so it might as well be after getting his say out. “Why not leave the diplomatic ship _ alone _ and make a treaty?”

“We tried.” Drift said, flatly. Ratchet recoiled. “This is the result. Our people were captured when we allowed Sentinel’s people in to explore, and our resources were stolen. We’ve had to move to your lands, be taken under Sentinel’s rule, just to survive.”

“The Prime wouldn’t do that.” _ Would he _?

“And how well do you know your Prime?” Drift retorted. Ratchet stayed silent. Drift nodded. “Exactly. So I’ll give you a choice. Join me, and you can take a step back, we’ll untie your hands, and you can help right the wrongs of the Prime. Or you can simply be another victim to Sentinel’s rule, killed like he killed us. Senselessly.”

Ratchet looked down into the sea to where he could see the greying forms of mechs who had chosen drowning, to the sides where a few mechs were managing to sort of wiggle their way toward the islands, and over to the pirate ship, where mechs were busy sorting their supplies. Now that he looked at them, really looked, he could see the signs of rough living, but he had supposed that was just the way the pirates were. Was it true that Prime had done this to them?

“If I join you, can I return to my work as a medic? I am trained, after all. And you look like you need it.” Rust, sharkticons, drowning, or working for the pirates._ What a choice _.

Drift shrugged. “Sure. But keep in mind that the slightest hint of treachery, of mishandling my mechs, and you’ll be off the side swimming for your life.”

“Very well.”

Drift nodded, nudging Ratchet back. “Step back.” Once he did, Drift pulled out a dagger and slashed through the bindings on his hands.

“Welcome to the crew…”

“Ratchet.”

“Ratchet. Behave, or I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” Drift smiled, fangs flashing, and gestured to the rest of his crew. “We’re done here! Pack it up!” He turned and stalked toward his own ship, jerking his head at Ratchet to indicate that he should follow.

Ratchet followed, but then stood at the rail for a long while afterward, watching as his former allegiance went up in flames as they sailed away.

What sort of devil’s deal had he made?

* * *

Ratchet stood at the railing by himself for a long while as the burning ship faded into the horizon, pondering the conversation he had had with the pirate captain. He knew, intellectually, that the pirates weren’t from an uncivilized nation. Yet, in his processor, he had this idea, from somewhere, that they were… not. He vented heavily as he thought about the Prime. What else had he covered up over the vorns? Ratchet pushed that thought away. No. These were pirates. 

If there was a peaceful solution to be had, then the Prime would have found one. These were just rebels. 

He had thrown his lot in with them, yes. But it was only to save his own spark. He’d escape, and take some physical and tactical knowledge of the pirates back to his Prime.

Ratchet vented and hung his helm, looking at the waves below. Soft pedesteps to his left made him turn his helm, seeing a red and white frame, with the wide-brimmed hat shading his optics, come to stand next to him. The rest of the ship continued on as normal, the chatter and quiet singing of the mechs behind them never faltering. 

“So you decided joining us was better than deactivation.” Drift started. “Any reason why?”

“No.” Ratchet snapped, turning away. “Just that.”

“Not very Navy of you.”

“Maybe I’m a little saner than them.”

“Your aura says otherwise. You know, Primus...”

Ratchet spun on his heel, glaring at Drift. “Don’t you start that whole religious deal with me.”

Drift raised an optic ridge and leaned on the rail. “That whole religious deal?” The air quotes were palpable.

“Just as I said.”

“You really didn’t.”

“Primus doesn’t exist. Happy?”

“Hardly.” Drift stood up straight and folded his arms across his chest. “So you have no reason for saving sparks from deactivation?”

“I do. It’s called being alive and having morals.”

“So those who deactivate have no hope?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

Drift leaned back against the railing again, a faint smile on his lips. “Well, you wouldn’t see it. That’s what faith is.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, and snapped it shut. He looked around at the other pirates.

“So how many of you are there?”

Drift shrugged, grinning as he recognized and accepted the change of subject for the moment. “On the ship? Or all the islanders?”

“Either.”

“Not telling.”

Ratchet glared at him, and Drift shrugged again.

“I don’t trust you yet. How am I supposed to know that you don’t plan on running back to Sentinel first chance you get?”

Ratchet’s optics never left Drift’s. “Guess you’d just have to have a little faith.” He spat the last word at Drift, who smirked.

“Oh, I have faith. Just not in you. Sunstreaker, Sideswipe?”

The two mechs in question looked up, Ratchet recognizing them as the ones he’d whacked over the helm with wrenches earlier.

“Take Ratchet to my cabin, would you?”

Sideswipe smirked and opened his mouth, but Drift turned a steely gaze on him. Sideswipe shut his mouth as Sunstreaker whacked him on the helm.

Ratchet had no such compunctions of respect or fear. “If you think I’m going to go into your berth like some kind of _toy_\--”

Drift snorted. “You? Please. I’m assigning myself as your nighttime guard. It’s only a couple joors until nightfall. You might as well familiarize yourself with the space. It’s where you’ll be living until I decide what to do with you.” He waved his hand, and Sunstreaker and Sideswipe each grabbed one of Ratchet’s arms. Ratchet wrenched out of their grip.

“You’d do better to take me to your infirmary or medbay so I can assess your medical supplies and figure out how to fix up your crew.” He said. “I saw you carrying our supplies over. Some of them need to be stored in special ways, or else they’ll go bad and be more dangerous than helpful.” Ratchet hoped Drift would buy the excuse. The reality was, no ship-board medical supplies had ‘special’ treatment. It was illogical in an environment that constantly shifted.

Drift thought for a moment. “Very well. Take him there instead, and stand guard.” He waved again, and the two tried to grab Ratchet’s arms again, only to be avoided with a surprising amount of dexterity for a heavy medic frame.

“I can walk myself, thank you very much.” He grumbled, starting off toward the hatch, making the two scramble after him. He glared back at Drift as he disappeared below. 

_ Hateful mech _, Ratchet thought.

Drift watched them go, venting heavily himself, returning Ratchet’s glare with one of his own. He’d needed a medic, but did he really need one this badly? He looked up at the sun, slowly making its way through the second half of its arc.

“I like ‘im.” A voice came from the shadows near the stairs to the poop deck.

Drift didn’t turn his helm. “You would.” Drift vented again. “Do I trust him?” He asked.

The voice hummed. “Well, ya know I spent some time in th’ Prime’s court. Saw ‘im round a few times.”

Drift did turn his helm that time. “You did?”

The figure slid out of the shadows, coming to stand next to Drift as his plating spun and flipped from gray to a shiny white and black, visor tinting from red to blue.

“Not sure what ‘is position was, besides being some sort o’ medic. Somethin’ a bit high up, but they _ did _ send ‘im out on this mission, so ‘e must ‘ave fragged somemech off.”

Drift hummed himself. “So, in answer to my question, Jazz?”

Jazz just shrugged. “Up t’ ya. I don’t, but then, I don’t trust anymech but m’. An’ occasionally ya.” He grinned, and Drift chuckled, but then frowned, thinking on his answer.

The mechs stood there in silence for a few moments before Drift remembered why Jazz was there. “Did you get the logs?”

“Obviously.” Jazz pulled the stack of datapads from his subspace and handed them to Drift. “Made sure I got ‘em all. Entries go right up until yesterday.”

Drift flipped through them. “Was it really a diplomatic ship?”

“Sure looks that way… right until ya look at th’ logs.”

Drift rubbed his optics and vented. “They’re getting smarter.”

“More sneaky, anyway. We’re goin’ t’ have t’ be more careful, Cap.”

“I know. Thanks, Jazz. Go tell the cook you’ve earned double rations.”

Jazz saluted. He glanced at the hatch, where Ratchet had disappeared with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. “Want m’ t’ keep an eye on ‘im?”

Drift nodded slowly, already engrossed in the first datapad. “If you would. He already knocked them out cold once today, I’d prefer it not happen a second time. Also, let the quartermaster know I’ll need a cot in my cabin for the medic.”

Jazz raised an optic ridge. “Sure thing. But did he actually knock out th’ Twins?”

“Apparently, he threw wrenches at them. Whirl was able to get to him before another wrench found its way over.”

Jazz snickered. “Oh, ‘m not letting th’ twins live that down. _ Wrenches _.” Jazz shook his helm and snorted, saluting again. Jazz turned and sauntered across the deck, waving to everyone who was paying attention as he passed. A few waved back, but most just nodded.

After watching Jazz disappear below, Drift finally turned from the rail with his stack of logs, slipping into his cabin where he could relax back on his berth with them.

Time to see what Sentinel was _really_ up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you’re too far into this idea when you find a nice Spotify playlist of sea shanties to listen to find the Proper Mood. xD
> 
> I currently plan to update every Tuesday night, but… well, university. *shrug*
> 
> I have a general idea of where this is going, but it may very well end up changing if I have a better idea. Hopefully, I do it justice throughout. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet vented as he stepped through the low doorway into the medbay. The two mechs who had escorted him down -- who he had figured out were twins from the way they seemed to move and communicate as one mech, something he had only ever seen in split-spark twins -- took up guard just outside the door, which Ratchet slammed shut behind him. He paused and took stock of the room.

Smaller than the medbay on the _ Cascade _ \-- the Navy ship Ratchet had been on -- it was both dirty and disused, with the new medical supplies piled into whatever corner they would fit in. Snorting, Ratchet dug through the cabinets and shelves for any rag sanitary enough to begin actually cleaning up the area. In his search, he routed out no fewer than three rats and half a dozen spiders. Grimacing, he opened the last of the cabinets to spilled nanite salves. Ratchet growled as he slammed the cabinet shut and stomped over to the medbay door, yanking it open. The red twin jumped, while the yellow one just looked unimpressed.

“You two. Make yourselves useful and go get me as many clean rags as you can find, and cleaning solvent, if you _ have _such a thing on board this ship.”

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker looked at each other for a moment, before Sideswipe’s shoulders slumped and he vented before stalking off to go find the requested items, Sunstreaker watching him go before looking into the medbay, wrinkling his olfactory as he did so.

“It’s a mess.”

“Thank you for the observation.” Ratchet snapped. “How you pirates haven’t died off of rust or infection already, I have no clue.” 

Sunstreaker stiffened. “We’re not pirates.”

Ratchet waved vaguely. “Fine, defense force. But no defence force I’ve ever heard of preys on diplomatic ships. Honorless slaggers.” Ratchet added under his breath.

Sunstreaker, catching it regardless, glared. “If you really were a diplomatic ship, then I’m sure the Captain had a good reason for raiding you. We certainly have more honor than murderers like _ you _.” He spat.

Ratchet began taking stock of the supplies that were still fine. “Not only am I a medic, and therefore under oath to do no harm, from my perspective, _ you’re _ the murderers. Or have you already forgotten that I just watched the rest of my crew go overboard?”

“The captain gives each of us a chance.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, catching the odd phrasing. “_ Us _?”

Sunstreaker maintained his optic contact. “Do you really think everyone here on the _ Lost Light _ is from the islands originally?”

Ratchet sputtered. “Are you telling me that you used to be Navy?”

“And if we were? It’s not as though you have a moral high ground.” Sunstreaker looked Ratchet over critically. “Or would you like to tell the Captain what you are back on the mainland?”

“What I am?” Ratchet crossed his arms. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all.” Sunstreaker leaned against the doorframe. “It’s not my style. Action is. You’re welcome to be one of us, as far as I’m concerned. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Well, isn’t it convenient that I don’t trust you either?”

The two mechs glared at each other for a few more moments before Sunstreaker huffed and turned away, stepping back outside just as Sideswipe came back. He looked between the two, and wisely decided not to comment on the tension in the air, instead handing the rags and solvent to Ratchet, who barely nodded in acknowledgement before slamming the door shut again and beginning his systematic removal of every mote of dust and rust from that medbay. 

Even if it meant he was a traitor to one oath, he would not be a traitor to the other. Come pits, high water or pirates, he was a doctor, slag it all. And these pirates would have the best slagging medical care he could provide.

* * *

Three joors later, a knock on the medbay door woke a dozing Ratchet. Blinking his optics owlishly, he glanced around for the source of the sound, only for the rapping to happen again. Grumbling, Ratchet stood up and glanced around the medbay. He’d gotten through about half the cupboards and the medical berth, such as it was, before dozing off in one of the two chairs in the room. Mildly berating himself for falling asleep in the medbay enemy territory, he stood with creaking joints, only for the door to swing open, revealing Drift.

“Evening, doc.”

“Don’t call me that, kid.”

“Alright, Ratchet.” Drift didn’t smile, and his tone was irritated. “And I’m the _ Captain _ , not _ kid _.”

“Talk to me again in five thousand years and maybe you’ll have earned that title.”

“I thought I said I’d throw you overboard.”

“You said you’d do that if I harmed anyone. I haven’t done that.” _ Yet _, Ratchet thought. Drift was on a strong course to being his choice of who to break that other oath on. If he was going, well, this annoying kid was going with him.

Drift gritted his denta. “Maybe I’m not feeling generous today.”

“Thought you didn’t like killing mecha.”

“I don’t. I might make an exception for you.”

Ratchet refused to give in, staring Drift down. The silence continued, Drift also refusing to give in.

They were only interrupted by Jazz stepping around Drift into the room, seemingly at ease with the tension, welcoming it, almost.

“Calm down, ya two. It’s like livin’ in th’ palace all over again.” Jazz snorted, breaking the two out of their staring contest. 

Ratchet was the first to recover and speak. Drift just shuffled a bit uncomfortably, looking anywhere but Ratchet.

“You lived in the palace?” He eyed Jazz carefully. “I don’t recognize you.”

Jazz waved it off. “Ya wouldn’t. Nobody notices th’ one cleanin’ out th’ fireplaces an’ runnin’ th’ waste out t’ th’ disposal. But what th’ Captain was comin’ down t’ tell ya before ya got him in a mood was that it’s refuelin’ time. Unless ya were plannin’ t’ starve.” Jazz grinned easily.

“Are you planning on poisoning me?”

Jazz rolled his optics. “Why is it that ya Navy types always jump t’ tha’ conclusion? If we took th’ trouble o’ bringin’ ya onboard, why th’ frag would we _ poison _ ya?”

Ratchet didn’t have a response to that. So he took the alternate route. “And who are you, exactly?”

Jazz’s grin never left his face as he exaggerated a bow. “Designation’s Jazz. I heard yer Ratchet.”

“I am.” 

It was at this point Drift decided to speak again. “As Jazz said, it’s time to refuel. Shockingly, we believe in treating our guests well.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge and crossed his arms. “_ Guest _ sounds an awful lot like _ prisoner _.”

Drift shrugged. “Probationary crew, if it comforts you.”

Jazz stepped in smoothly. “Now, now. I’m hungry, an’ I’m sure ya both are too. So let’s not act like sparklin’s right now.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, but Jazz fixed him with a look that rivaled the ones that Orion’s bodyguard used to give anyone who crossed him… oh, what was his designation? Ratchet couldn’t remember at the moment, but the resemblance was eerie, and made him rethink the scathing commentary he had on the tip of his glossa. Instead, Ratchet gave a curt nod, and stalked out of the medbay, closely followed by the Twins, who nudged him toward the mess hall. He could feel Drift’s optics on his back, and ignored Jazz, who walked alongside him, also seemingly ignoring the captain. Ratchet doubted that was actually the case.

Palace life had tuned Ratchet to the chain of command like nothing else, to the hierarchies that took over any society. This ship was no different. While Ratchet may not have liked the political machinations, the mechs in the shadows, the power plays and the whispered secrets meant to bring down other houses, he knew a spy and assassin when he saw one.

Jazz ticked every box Ratchet knew for such a role. _That_ is what kept him from paying too close attention to the other mech. While common sense would say to keep an eye on everything Jazz was doing, Ratchet would much rather not see the knife meant for his main energon line coming. Not that he would anyway, but by ignoring Jazz, he was also ignoring his probable fate.

Perhaps not the soundest of logic, but it kept him sane all these years. That, and a solid immunity to most poisons and diseases.

There were some benefits of being a Prime’s Medic, whether or not he’d ever officially held that title.

So as they walked, Ratchet memorized the path between the mess hall and the medbay, so that he wouldn’t have to be led around like a turbo-sheep. The ship wasn’t that big, however, like all ships, it had its quirks. Sometimes a path would lead to the left when it might normally go right, or right when it maybe should have gone left. But soon enough, they were back out on deck, heading across to the mess hall on the other end of the ship. The deck was almost completely dark, only lit by the windows at the far end of the ship where the mess hall was, and a few reddish lanterns where important objects or ledges were. Ratchet looked up at the sky. It had only been late afternoon when he had gone below, and now even the sunset had faded, and the dimmer of the stars beginning to reappear in the sky. Ratchet blinked. There were so many _ more _. The Navy kept their ships well-lit, and so while there were more stars than in the city, this… Ratchet almost couldn’t find constellations he had known since sparklinghood, buried as they were in the new stars. He hadn’t even realized that he’d stopped until Jazz spoke right in his audial.

“Bit different than th’ city or a Navy ship, isn’t it?”

Ratchet broke out of his wonder, noticing that Drift and the twins had gone on into the mess hall, leaving just him and Jazz on deck. “I simply expected your ship to be better lit.” He said.

Jazz chuckled. “Nah, mech. If we did tha’, it’d be easy t’ see us comin’.” Jazz looked up at the sky himself, smiling. “I missed this when th’ Captain asked m’ t’ go t’ th’ mainland. I think I sat out here fo’ a whole night when I got back.”

“Why were you there?” Ratchet asked, curious. He hadn’t been able to get answers out of Drift, but this spy seemed more open. He didn’t really expect a response, and so was surprised when Jazz answered frankly.

“Was tryin’ t’ find a way t’ assassinate Sentinel.” Jazz shrugged. “But ya’d already guessed I wasn’t a normal crewmember, didn’t ya?”

There was a clever light in Jazz’s visor that Ratchet didn’t like one bit. “It’s--”

“Obvious t’ anyone wit’ th’ proper social connections.” Jazz leaned in, expression serious, examining Ratchet’s face. “I saw ya around when I was there. I’ll admit, it took m’ watchin’ ya most o’ th’ day today t’ finally figure it out.”

Ratchet scowled. “Sunstreaker already tried--”

Jazz snorted. “Sunstreaker _ thinks _ he knows what ya are. A noblemech, like th’ rest o’ th’ Navy officers. But yer not.” He leaned in, visor snapping back to reveal pale optics, obviously scarred. “Yer like me. Our titles and functions are just a bit different.”

“I never held that title.” Ratchet forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“Ah. My mistake.” Jazz’s visor snapped back into place along with his good mood and smile. “Fuel, then?”

Ratchet didn’t hesitate to spin on his heel and head for the mess hall, Jazz trailing behind him. Pushing open the door, the noise spilled out before Ratchet’s optics could adjust. He paused in the doorway, shocked to see the happy, friendly camaraderie in front of him, so different from the mannerly, stately meals in the palace, or the quiet business-like atmosphere of the _ Cascade _.

Jazz was right in his audial again.

“Welcome t’ th’_ Lost Light _, Ratchet.”

* * *

After having a cube shoved into his hand, Ratchet sat down in a corner, watching the mechs around him. Drift, even, was moving among his crew, laughing and talking with them, patting this one on the shoulder or high-fiving that one, not sequestered away in a private dining area like the captain of the _ Cascade _ had been. Eventually, cube long since empty, Ratchet was simply sitting there, watching. Normally, he would have gone back to his cabin by this point, but Jazz had simply fixed him with a stare when he had tried to get up, and so Ratchet stayed where he was until Drift finally came around.

“Come on.” He ground out, any good mood he had had gone.

“A please never hurt anyone.” Ratchet crossed his arms.

Drift growled and dragged Ratchet out of his chair. “What did we say about behaving?”

“You said in the morning. You really want to not be able to see me drown?” Ratchet challenged.

Drift’s fist clenched. “Just follow me.” He stomped to the door and pushed it open, clearly waiting for Ratchet.

Ratchet’s scowl twitched, just a little, as he followed Drift out the door to the captain’s cabin. They didn’t exchange any further words, Drift simply opened the door, pointed to Ratchet’s cot in the corner, and, dumping his hat on a chair and locking the door, collapsed onto his own berth, dragging his blankets over his frame.

Ratchet was left to stare at the Captain’s back, before venting and sitting down on his cot. Thankfully, he’d been provided with a pillow and two thermal blankets, so it wasn’t as though he was going to get cold. At least the pirates knew what was needed for basic comfort out here on the Rust Sea. He could tell that Drift wasn’t in recharge -- his engine was running just a little too fast, his venting uneven -- but he didn’t feel the need to call Drift out on it, instead lying down with a creak and a grunt, getting as comfortable as he could himself. 

“Good night, kid.” Ratchet ventured, to absolutely no response from the speedster across from him.

He vented once more, rolled over, and fell into recharge.

Drift did _ not _ throw him overboard in the morning, and so the days and nights slipped into a tenuous routine. Every morning, Ratchet would get up, make his cot, and step out onto deck, only to have Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, or sometimes Jazz appear at his elbow to escort him down to the medbay. At first, most of Ratchet’s day was spent cleaning and distributing medical supplies to their proper locations, but it only took about a week before the entire medbay was one that any Iaconian doctor would be jealous to have on board their ship. For that first week, Ratchet was only treating the usual scrapes and injuries that happened in a day on board ship, but once <strike>his medbay</strike> the ship medbay was to a basic standard of cleanliness, he set up a maintenance schedule that he made absolutely clear to Drift was to be followed by everyone. Drift had grimaced, but nodded.

Ratchet, of course, forced Drift in first as an example to the rest of the crew. Jazz was on guard duty when Ratchet half-dragged him in, and Jazz grinned as Drift tried to pretend he was there of his own free will.

“Lie down.” Ratchet said as he shut the medbay door.

Drift crossed his arms. “Why?”

“Doctor’s orders.” Ratchet shoved him toward the med berth. “I won’t hesitate to pick you up and cuff you to it if you don’t.”

“Promise?” Drift smirked.

Ratchet didn’t dignify that with a response, and Drift huffed as he settled down. As soon as he was prone, Ratchet picked up the first of his tools and, making a cursory examination of Drift’s frame, poked just a little too hard at one of Drift’s panels, making him yelp. “Sorry.” Ratchet lied.

“Apology not accepted.”

“Good.”

They made it through the rest of the examination without murdering each other, and Ratchet finally let Drift go, Drift muttering things that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary under his breath. Jazz was still outside, and Drift glared at him as Jazz’s amused snicker broke through.

“Don’t get too comfortable out there.” Ratchet spoke up. “You’re next, Jazz.”

Jazz’s face fell as Drift fake-saluted him before glaring at Ratchet one more time and disappearing back to his quarters. 

And so the days went. At midday, someone would bring Ratchet a ration. After the daily examinations, Ratchet would be escorted to the mess hall to refuel with the rest of the crew. Then, Drift would take him back to his cabin and, most of the time, proceed to ignore him.

This worked in Ratchet’s favor, as he spent the time mentally reviewing the contents of his medbay, and the layout of the ship.

Where the energon was. Where the dinghys were. Where his personal stash of med supplies were hidden in the medbay, behind the drawer that didn’t quite go in all the way anyway.

And Ratchet waited.

Another week passed.

And another.

He and Drift fought.

He and Jazz danced around the fact that they understood each other. 

The Twins, admittedly, didn’t complain whenever Ratchet bonked them over the helm with wrenches for getting in the way. The first time, Ratchet had assumed that would be the end of him, but Drift had shrugged it off, seeming to think that they had probably deserved it.

A few of the crew, such as Perceptor and Wheeljack, struck Ratchet as being friendly sorts, even if it was their fault that they ended up in <strike>his</strike> the medbay most days. Sometimes multiple times a day. They struck up friendly (or, as friendly as Ratchet could manage) conversations.

All in all, Ratchet made an attempt to look like he was at least reluctantly acquiescing to becoming a pirate, or at least look like he had accepted his fate. Every time he nodded or forced a smile in response to a joke about the Prime, or about the Navy, his spark dropped just a little more.

And so it went.

“Ratchet.” Drift’s voice came from the doorway to the medbay, where Ratchet was currently inventorying his remaining supplies, having finally finished assessing every single crewmember. At least that answered his question as to how many of them there were: about a hundred. It surprised him a little, but then, this wasn’t a small ship.

“Kid.”

“_Captain_.” Drift stressed.

“Kid.” Ratchet refused to give in.

Drift vented. “You’re needed up on deck.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Why?”

“Watch spotted a Navy ship on the horizon.”

“So?” Ratchet’s spark spun. Were they finally coming for him?

“Can you identify it?”

“Just because I was Navy doesn’t mean I know every ship in the fleet.”

“So you won’t help?”

“Since you would only attack it, no.”

“I could throw you overboard.”

“You could.” Ratchet responded mildly.

Drift vented again and left, shutting the door behind him.

Ratchet heard at the evening refuelling that they had changed course to lose the Navy ship, and Drift was just a little colder when he took him to his cabin that night.

But Ratchet didn’t care. It was time to leave.

Admittedly, he was a little disappointed to leave <strike>his</strike> a perfectly clean medbay behind, but it was still a pirate ship, and he had a duty, for all he had briefly forgotten it.

Now, in the middle of the night, Ratchet flexed his hands under the thermal blankets as he struggled to keep his fans and engine running as low as possible, keeping up the appearance of being in recharge. This would be a one-chance deal. Ratchet had no illusions that if he was caught that he would survive another day. Drift would throw him overboard for the betrayal, just as any Navy officer would.

Perhaps that was the only thing they had in common.

Finally convinced Drift had fallen into recharge, both by his light vents and his softening engine, Ratchet took the opportunity to slip from his cot, moving slowly to minimize the creaks. Drift turned over, his closed optics and slightly open mouth now facing Ratchet. Ratchet froze. But Drift’s vents didn’t change, and Ratchet allowed himself just a moment of silence to trace Drift’s face with his optics. If he wasn’t a pirate, Ratchet admitted, and if Drift clearly wasn’t at least ten millenia younger than him… but it was no use thinking that way. What was, was. Ratchet turned away, and, carefully turning the lock, slipped out onto deck.

Behind him, a single blue optic opened up, and a soft vent came from its owner.

Ratchet kept his step as light as possible as he moved from the captain’s cabin to the medbay, and from the medbay to the storeroom for the rations he’d slipped into a bag to the side, and from there to the main deck, weaving through the sleeping forms of the other crewmembers in their hammocks. His fans hitched and he froze as one stirred, almost looking like they were about to tip out and wake up, but they seemed to adjust for it and continued to recharge, engine hiccuping. 

Ratchet gave an internal vent of relief as he continued along, creeping up the ladder as quietly as possible. Finally out on the deck again, Ratchet let out the vent he had been holding in, knowing it would be covered by the sea. 

The moons were high overhead, drowning out the stars, and the lap of the waves on the boat was almost peaceful. Or, it would be, if Ratchet weren’t in the middle of escaping from pirates. 

Looking around for the night guard, he didn’t see him anywhere. That alone should have alerted Ratchet to something being _ very _ wrong, but unfortunately, the idea of finally getting back to the Navy had dulled his natural suspicion of anything out of the ordinary and so he went straight to the dinghys tied to the stern. 

When he came around them, however, Drift was sitting there, on the deck of the ship, optics closed, legs crossed and arms relaxed on them, facing the sea. Ratchet froze. Drift didn’t move.

“I knew you weren’t really interested in being one of us.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ “I knew that you weren’t really interested in being one of us.” _

Ratchet winced at the tone of Drift’s voice. It wasn’t accusatory, merely acknowledging. Drift _ knew _ that Ratchet was leaving. “I heard you get up. Light recharger.” He added.

Despite knowing in his spark that it was futile, Ratchet tried to play it off, putting on his trademark grumpy exterior. “I just wanted a walk. I don’t exactly get breaks from you or your crew.”

Drift just smirked, optics still closed. “And I’m an unequivocally good mech. Try again. Why do you want to leave?”

Ratchet huffed. “You didn’t really give me a good choice. Drowning, sharks, or you. What would you have chosen?”

Drift finally opened his optics and looked at Ratchet, blue optics sad. “Offlining.” He said, simply. “I wouldn’t betray my people. So why did you?”

Ratchet glared. “Maybe I’m not as good of a mech as people think. Maybe I’m just a cranky old rustbucket who’d prefer to spend the latter half of his functioning alive instead of at the bottom of the Rust Sea.”

Drift looked back out to the sea. “Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t be preferable.”

Seeing no way out of this conversation, Ratchet sat down next to Drift. “What are you doing out here?”

Drift didn’t look at Ratchet. “Meditating.”

“Ah.”

“You want to argue that, as well? I happen to know of several medical benefits to meditation.”

Ratchet huffed. “Don’t get snippy with me, kid.”

“Captain.”

“What are you going to do, throw me overboard?”

“I should. You _ are _ trying to desert.”

Ratchet shrugged. “True.” He looked back out at the sea.

Drift looked at him, curiously. “So why?”

“Why what?”

“You know.”

Ratchet sighed. “I’m still Navy, kid. I may have joined you out of desperation, but I still have friends back home, and a position in the court. I wasn’t supposed to leave forever.”

Drift looked back out at the sea. “And yet they put you on that ship.” He pointed out. “You do know what you were out here for, don’t you?”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Diplomacy. We were on our way out to find the islander’s leader and ask for a treaty to allow for safe passage.”

“And why would they need a medic of your caliber?” Drift asked. “You aren’t a shipboard medic. You’re too good. And yes, I say that even after those _ checkups _you demanded.” He cut off Ratchet, who smirked, before his face returned to a neutral expression.

“Prime told me to go. So I went.”

“Why?”

“What are you, a sparkling?” Ratchet huffed. “I’m from the family of the Prime’s Medics. I do what the Prime asks.”

Drift hummed noncommittally. “Even if it means going to your death? Even if you don’t know the truth?”

“What?”

“You have no clue what you were out here for?”

“It wasn’t for me to know.” Ratchet crossed his arms.

“You really should ask questions. You weren’t on a diplomatic ship, Ratchet.”

“Yes, I was. That mech on my table when you attacked was the diplomat.”

“I have a source that says otherwise.” Drift pulled a datapad out of his subspace and held it up. “Do you want to see it?”

“And why should I believe your _ source _?”

“It comes from your captain’s logs, and it’s signed with Sentinel’s seal.”

“You could have forged it.”

“I could have.” Drift paused, locking optics with Ratchet. “So it comes down to who you trust. Your so-called honest Prime who sent you on this mission, or a pirate who has no reason not to toss you overboard right now.”

“If it’s real, why show me now?”

Drift sighed. “I was hoping you would believe me without it.” He admitted. “You seemed to be integrating, and I didn’t want to shatter your belief in Sentinel so much. It was almost… nice.”

Ratchet rubbed his optics. “Kid, hard evidence will always, when dealing with a reasonable mech, do more than threats.” He muttered.

Drift smiled wryly. “Forgive me, then.” He held the datapad out to Ratchet, who took it from him, and with another apologetic look, moved off so that Ratchet could read it in peace.

Ratchet turned it on, and began to read.

The logs were long-winded, much as the captain had been. The first few were innocuous enough, talking about the crew, the disagreements, the problems that might arise. Ratchet squirmed internally as the captain, Wolfhead, spoke at some length about Ratchet’s berthside manner and how he would love to see him eat his own glyphs, but Ratchet didn’t dwell on it. He knew well enough that most mecha disliked him, whether for his manner or his connections, it didn’t matter.

The logs continued, and Ratchet started skimming. What in these was so terrible? Sure, Wolfhead continued to complain about Ratchet, sometimes in rather lewd terms, but Ratchet was used to that being said to his face.

Then he reached the middle. They had just entered the island waters, and Wolfhead knew it.

Ratchet felt his faceplates heat up at the language used, the slurs and insults towards the islanders. These pirates, he could understand, but the islanders themselves? For all Ratchet hated Drift and his crew right now, he could understand that there were civilians on the islands, just like anywhere else.

And yet, Wolfhead was looking forward to landing there, to making those barbarians worship him, to using them for whatever he wanted.

If Ratchet hadn’t been doing regular checkups, he would say that Wolfhead had had a glitch go very, very wrong. But he had, and so no medical diagnosis could explain this.

Tank churning, Ratchet turned the page, before having to put the datapad down for a moment.

Drift spoke up from the railing, turning his helm ever so slightly toward Ratchet. “Keep reading.” His voice was cold, but it wasn’t necessarily directed at Ratchet.

“I don’t want to.”

“Keep. Reading.” Drift growled, most definitely at Ratchet this time, and Ratchet slowly picked the pad up again, skimming more than reading. 

It didn’t get better.

The last entry was in the joor before the attack.

_ We have seen one of the barbarian pirates off our port stern. At least if we are attacked, it will likely be the end of Ratchet. Firecharge will see to that. _

_ What a tragic end that’ll be for the slagger. _

Ratchet frowned. But Firecharge had been the diplomat. He’d been topside when the shots had hit, rather than in his quarters, because he had been coming to warn Ratchet of the attack, before being hit by the stray shot. The datapad told him there was one more page.

He turned it.

_ Firecharge: _

_ Upon arriving on the islands, make sure to keep an optic on Ratchet. _

_ It would greatly displease me should anything happen to him. Those barbarians truly cannot be trusted. _

_ Signed, _

_ Sentinel Prime. _

Ratchet blinked, setting the datapad to the side, and looked out at the sea, his optics growing cold.

The Prime had sent him out to get rid of him. A tragic accident that would have given him the evidence needed to launch a full-out war.

Ratchet was by no means a pacifist. He had done terrible things in his country’s name, but genocide was another matter entirely. He couldn’t believe that Prime would do such a thing. He was supposed to be a leader, a righteous one.

Yet here, right in front of him, was evidence to the contrary.

Oh, how he wished Orion were here. Orion would know the truth. But Orion was far away, on what Ratchet could only assume was _ actually _a diplomatic mission to the south.

Drift looked over from his place at the rail, and, seeming to see the conflict in Ratchet’s face, sighed.

“Do you believe me now?”

Ratchet blinked. _ Did he _?

“No.” He stated, making Drift scowl. He raised a hand. “I don’t believe things easily, kid. It’s kept me alive.”

“Yet you believed Sentinel was in the right!” He hissed.

“I had no reason to believe otherwise!” Ratchet protested, hissing right back. “Now… now _ I don’t know _. You can’t expect me to change my beliefs overnight, kid.”

“Why not? Lots of others have.”

“And have they stuck with you? Are they really following you? How old are they?”

Drift didn’t hesitate. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have stayed.” He said, quietly, angrily. 

“And how many others have you managed to get on your side?”

Drift didn’t answer, and Ratchet threw up his hands. “And how old were the hellions when you brought them onboard?”

Drift glared. “Old enough to be in the Navy.”

Ratchet glared right back. “Medical experience tells me they’re probably just past their final upgrades. They were just mechlings, ammo and energon runners, weren’t they? You didn’t have the heart to kill them, and what mechling doesn’t want to be a pirate?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

Drift moved faster than Ratchet could react, pushing him back against the railing, one arm at Ratchet’s throat and the other pinning his hands behind his back, fangs bared as he moved into Ratchet’s space, face now directly in front of Ratchet’s. Ratchet’s wrist paneling creaked with the force of Drift’s grip, and his fans spun a little faster. Drift didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t ever question my orders, or my motives, or anything I do. I have been _ surviving _ while you lived in your golden palace and cushy life, do you understand? I am the Captain here, and, despite my better judgement, you’re still alive. I let you join out of some misguided mercy, and where has that gotten me? A medic who tries to desert at the first opportunity.”

“Then throw me overboard.” Ratchet hissed. “Throw me over and be done with it.”

“For someone who turned traitor to save their aft, you’re surprisingly willing to die.” Drift’s hold tightened, and Ratchet was sure that panel was going to dent now. “Even I’m not this suicidal.”

“Really? Because you’ve kept me around.”

“And I’m trying to think of one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you overboard right now, besides the fact that you’ve been _ so _helpful in organizing our medical supplies. I told you, treachery would be the end of this little deal, and I think this counts.”

“Then do it.” Ratchet looked into Drift’s optics, which were dark with anger, but Ratchet still saw the young mech posturing behind them. He’d seen them all over the palace, trying to convince everyone they knew what they were about.

Drift was scared. Ratchet was sure of it. Oh, he hadn’t been lying weeks ago when he said he didn’t like to kill mechs. If he had, Ratchet wouldn’t be functioning right now. But _ scared _ was something new.

Drift tried another tactic. “Are you lying to me?”

Ratchet’s optic ridges crinkled. “What the frag would I be lying to you about?”

“You were out here for a reason.” Drift’s tone was accusatory now, the mech so far gone in his anger that he had lost the ability to think rationally. 

The railing creaked under Ratchet. Ratchet sputtered. “Kid, you’re spouting nonsense now. I’m a _ medic _.”

“Really? So if I search your subspace, I won’t find a communicator?”

Ratchet was simply confused now. “You won’t.” This, at least, was the truth. The Navy had never really found a reliable way to communicate with the mainland from the ships -- something about the islands scrambled the signal.

Drift growled and, releasing Ratchet’s neck, tapped Ratchet’s subspace. “Then open up.”

“No.” Ratchet struggled against Drift’s hands, but they simply tightened.

“No?” Drift’s tone was dark.

“I may not be part of your crew, or part of the Navy any more, but that makes me a civilian prisoner. How would you treat a civilian?” Ratchet bit out.

Drift’s hands loosened a fraction, but Ratchet still couldn’t break free. “You’d be in the brig.” He grumbled. “A thousand times over by now.”

“So why aren’t I?”

Drift glared. “I really don’t know.” Without releasing Ratchet’s wrists, he began dragging him back toward their shared cabin, shoving Ratchet in and locking the door behind them, subspacing the key. He turned to Ratchet. “You know why I brought you in here initially?”

“To keep an eye on me at night.” Ratchet crossed his arms. “You’re doing a fine job of that.”

“Evidently not. Now, am I going to have to cuff you to a berth?”

“Civilian prisoner.”

“To the pits with that. You’re Navy, and you always will be.” Drift’s hand tightened against his side.

“Then why am I here? You can’t keep me in here forever.”

“Really?” Drift growled, lunging for Ratchet again. This time, Ratchet was prepared, and grabbed Drift instead, shoving him against the wall.

“You had better calm down now, kid. Your engine is running too hot, and I don’t want to replace wires at midnight.” Ratchet hissed, Drift struggling, but Ratchet using his medic weight against him. 

Drift growled again, and, forcing Ratchet off, began to shove Ratchet back toward the cot, before changing his mind, and shoving Ratchet to his berth instead.

Ratchet fell over onto it with a muffled _ oompfh _, and blinked once before Drift came back into his view. 

He had the brief thought that Drift was about to straddle him, before Drift’s optics closed and, taking two deep vents, he huffed.

“Move over.” He muttered, kicking Ratchet’s legs to make him lay normally, pushing him toward the wall as Drift laid down next to him.

Ratchet sputtered again, fans spinning unhelpfully at the sudden movements. “What are you doing?” He hissed as Drift threw an arm and a leg across him, dragging him back into his chest.

“Making sure you don’t run off again.” He grumbled. “It’s too early for this, and you’re right, I really don’t want to end up on your medberth. I’ll deal with this in the morning.” Then Drift was in recharge, leaving Ratchet running a little hotter than he really should be and very, very confused.

What do you do when the devil lets you live?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes. Conversation. It's literally a chapter of conversation.
> 
> At least Ratchet knows the truth now. Maybe we can finally get somewhere?


	4. Chapter 4

When Ratchet onlined, it was to a heavy weight draped over his chassis and legs, wrapped around his frame, pressing into him the strangely soft berth, almost blocking his vents, but  _ warm _ more than anything, as soft, warm vents caressed the top of his helm. He started to snuggle forward into the warm weight, letting out a soft vent of contentment, before he stiffened, remembering why he was in a berth and not his cot, and why he had a warm speedster draped across him. His optics snapped open, only to see Drift’s face less than six inches from his own, the other mech’s optics already open, their soft blue fixed on Ratchet’s own. Drift’s face was creased with a frown, but not a confused one. A thoughtful, disappointed one.

Ratchet closed his optics again.

“Don’t go back into recharge, Ratchet.” Drift said, close to Ratchet’s audial. “It’s morning.”

“I’m not.” Ratchet muttered. “I was hoping this was a bad processing thread.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, no.” Drift muttered, before removing his frame from Ratchet’s, going to stand near the window. Ratchet, to his credit, did not whine at the sudden absence of warm. He was a  _ dignified _ mech, frag it. “You still tried to leave last night. We need to discuss that.”

Ratchet’s frame didn’t even creak as he sat up, mildly surprising him, but not enough to give it another thought at the moment. “What’s there to discuss? I believe you were planning on throwing me overboard.”

Drift huffed and crossed his arms, turning back around to face Ratchet. “I could. And believe me, I thought long and hard about it while you were still in recharge.” He turned his helm, looking out the window. “But you’re right. I can’t take another life without giving them all the info I have available to me. Lucky for you, we need to head back into port for supply exchange.”   
  
“Port?”

“On Rodion.” Drift clarified. “We’re about five meta-cycles out. Then, if you still refuse to believe us, I will have fewer compunctions about sending you after your crewmates.”

Ratchet crossed his arms, mirroring Drift. “Well, I’m glad I’ve given you a conscience.”

Drift bared his fangs, snarling at Ratchet briefly before composing his face, if not his voice. “You’re walking on thin fragging metal,  _ doc _ .”

Ratchet didn’t break optic contact. “And they say I have poor berthside manner.”

Drift’s face went through about five different emotions before he turned to face the window. “Jazz is waiting to take you to medbay. And don’t even think about leaving there today. All your rations will be brought to you in medbay. Even the evening one. Get out.”

Ratchet, sensing that he had pushed as far as was wise, obeyed. Jazz fell into step beside him as the door shut behind him, Ratchet blinking in the sudden sun.

“So ya an’ th’ boss-mech had a bit o’ a disagreement?” Jazz’s tone was cheery, but not as inquisitive as it appeared. 

“I’m sure you’re already aware of the contents.” Ratchet responded dryly, and Jazz shrugged.

“Maybe, but ‘m nothin’ if not polite.” Jazz hummed along briefly with the shanty the mechs up on the sails were belting out. Ratchet snorted, and Jazz spoke again. “If I can make a suggestion?”

“You’re going to anyway.”

“Yep.” Jazz popped the p. “Don’t push th’ Captain anymore than ya already have. Yer brave, I’ll give ya tha’, an’ it’s good for th’ Captain t’ get shaken up a bit, but yer treadin’ a risky thin line, m’mech.”

“Any other pithy advice?”

“Do you really care?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Good.”

Jazz shrugged again, the two mechs almost to the medbay. “I’ll be back at mid-orn with yer ration.” He produced a small morning cube, handing it to Ratchet. “Yer aware th’ Captain wants ya t’ stay here?”

“So, like usual?” Ratchet snorted.

Jazz frowned. “Ya could have left anytime. Ya stayed in here out o’ yer own volition, m’mech.” His voice was quiet.

Ratchet, in the middle of opening his cube, stopped.

“What?”

“Ya didn’t realize that?” Jazz asked.

Ratchet raised an eyebrow. “Realize what? The guards rather discouraged wandering, and seeing as how I was escorted down here each day, with rations brought to me...” He trailed off

Jazz clenched his jaw. “I told th’ Captain ya were gonna get th’ wrong idea in yer processor. We don’t keep prisoners, m’mech.” He let that thought sink in before he continued. “I thought it was clear tha’ ya were allowed t’ explore and mingle as much as ya wanted t’. We brought ya rations so ya wouldn’t offline yourself from starvation. Sure, Sunny or Sides or m’self would’ve been nearby, but tha’ was because ya were an unknown. Not a prisoner.” He huffed. “Regardless. Yer stuck in here now. Sorry, m’mech.” With that, he disappeared, the door swinging closed behind him.

Ratchet was left with his half-open cube and an empty medbay, with a new realization.

There was only one brig cell on the ship. They didn’t keep prisoners of war -- even mechs like the captains and first officers. They offlined them if they didn’t join.

Ratchet set his cube aside. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like refuelling.

He didn’t eat his midday ration either, or his evening one. They piled up, unopened, on his desk there in the medbay. His tanks were at 66%. Certainly not the lowest he’d ever been. In fact, since he hadn’t refuelled today, his tanks would be more efficient with their fuel tomorrow, and even more so each day after, making that 66% last for probably close to seven meta-cycles before it became an issue. 

Being a medic had its advantages.

When Drift came to get him for the evening, he immediately narrowed in on the unopened cubes.

“We’re not going to suddenly poison you.” He crossed his arms, cocking his hip, and leaning on the doorway with a raised optic ridge. 

Ratchet shrugged, not making optic contact. Drift huffed.

“We don’t like to waste fuel out here on the Sea.” He tried. “Refuel.”

“I’m at 88%.” Ratchet lied. Drift huffed again.

“I know you’re lying. Your aura’s all…” Drift made a wiggly motion with his hand.

“Jazz warned me not to push you anymore. Still, I am the one that fixes you up when things  _ break _ .” Ratchet casually tossed a wrench into the box across the room, making the whole box shift and clatter loudly.

Drift didn’t even blink. “Fair.” Was all he said, before returning to his original reason for coming down. “It’s time to recharge.”

“I’d prefer to recharge down here.” Ratchet muttered. Drift shook his helm immediately.

“If you hadn’t tried to run last night, I’d consider it. But now I don’t trust you.”

“You really think I’d try the same thing twice?”

Drift shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Better mecha have.”

Ratchet huffed and wiped his hands off on a clean cloth, turning to face Drift. “Fine.”

Their walk back was silent, the mess hall completely empty and dark, the crew mostly in recharge already. It seemed that Drift had let Ratchet stew for a significant amount of time, or perhaps it had been Drift doing the stewing. Regardless, the only mech out on deck was… oh, what was his name? Rung? Yeah. Rung. He was on watch, but it was more of a general sitting on a crate near the ship’s wheel, gazing up at the stars, with the occasional glance around deck. He noticed Drift, and raised a hand in salute, Drift waving him back to guard. Rung’s eyes went back to the stars, and Ratchet found himself wishing he could join him.

Drift opened the door to his cabin silently, and Ratchet went in, Drift shutting the door behind them.

“I’m sorry.” Drift whispered, shuffling one pede against the floor. 

Ratchet turned around, confused. Drift’s optics were down, focused on that one pede.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah.” Drift finally looked up, that  _ young _ reading creeping back into Ratchet’s processor. “I didn’t realize that you thought you were a prisoner this whole time. I didn’t intend for that to be the case.” He huffed in bitter amusement, running a hand over one of his finials. “I think I’ve fragged this up from the beginning.”

“You’ve got that right, kid.” Ratchet crossed his arms.

Drift bristled at Ratchet’s nickname, but visibly restrained himself until his plating stopped flaring. “I have. So look. Here’s me, asking for a second chance.” Drift extended a hand. “Join my crew?”

Ratchet looked at Drift’s hand for a moment. “You have to earn that second chance.” He finally responded, not taking Drift’s hand. Drift lowered it.

“I suppose that’s fair.” He vented. “You’re still restricted to medbay for the next couple mega-cycles. Although, perhaps, a better punishment would be to force you to socialize.” Drift’s lips twitched in spite of himself, before he shook himself out of it. “I hope your seeing my home earns me that chance.”

“We’ll see.” Ratchet’s tone was non-committal, but his processor was spinning. A pirate captain, asking for a second chance? Being so sure that seeing Drift’s home would bring him around to Drift’s perspective? Ratchet wasn’t so old that he couldn’t see a pattern. Either Drift was a very, very good liar himself, and was trying to create some sort of Stockholm syndrome, or Ratchet had a lot of thinking to do.

Ratchet wasn’t sure which bothered him more.

But Drift broke him out of his thoughts by gently pushing him towards the berth. “Recharge.” He muttered, almost-but-not-quite forcing Ratchet onto the berth, before flopping down next to him and throwing an arm and leg over Ratchet, same as last night, before pausing.

“You okay with this?” Drift asked, suddenly.

“Do I have a choice?” Ratchet muttered, suddenly very tired and very cranky.

“Of course.” Drift mumbled, starting to remove his limbs. “I’m not a monster. I should have asked last night, but...” He trailed off.

Ratchet turned over, facing Drift. “Are you okay with it?”

“I did it in the first place, didn’t I?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s more comfortable than the alternative. So yeah, I’m okay with it.” Drift shrugged, an awkward movement from his sideways position.

“The alternative?”

“I handcuff you to the berth.” Drift’s lips twitched again, and Ratchet huffed, turning over.

“...You can leave the arm.” He mumbled. He didn’t see the tiny, soft, dopey grin that crossed Drift’s face as he put his arm back over Ratchet, not pulling him in, just the recognition that Drift would know if Ratchet tried to get up in the middle of the night.

“...Good night, Ratchet.” He whispered. 

With Ratchet facing away from him, Drift couldn't see the small smile that spread on Ratchet's lips as he slipped into recharge.

* * *

Ratchet vented as he set down the datapad he was working on, leaning forward onto his desk. He’d found a small supply of empty datapads in one of the medbay cabinets, and so he was working on some sea-based research, curious about some of the pirates had different infections, or seeming immunities to others. But it was slow-going -- he didn’t have any of his usual research equipment, since what little he had had on the  _ Cascade _ hadn’t made it across to the  _ Lost Light _ . As it was, he needed another test subject for this particular antibody, but since it was only three mega-cycles out of five until port, Ratchet was still confined to medbay. Drift had mentioned this morning that he might lift the ban, if Ratchet was well-behaved today. So, no leaving medbay, he had to eat his rations (Drift had made it clear what would happen if Ratchet didn’t fuel -- namely, that either he or Jazz would knock him out and hook him up to an energon line if necessary), and no tormenting anyone unnecessarily. This meant, however, that Ratchet was stuck in his research. 

He vented again and looked around the medbay, thinking about his functioning. It was a cage. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, but Ratchet knew he’d always been in a cage. Sentinel Prime’s palace had been a gilded one, this medbay was just a reasonably comfortable one. Perhaps his next one would be made out of iron bars and rust.

Ratchet almost missed the call of “land ho” and the bell ringing out above him on deck. Raising an optic ridge, he stood with soft creaks, rearranging his desktop. The bell stopped, but the activity on deck did not. A solid joor passed, and nobody came to collect him. 

He was not a  _ curious _ mech, frag it. He was too old to be  _ curious _ . No, this was strategic. They weren’t supposed to see port for two more meta-cycles. So, really, it was only realistic that he would want to know what was going on, right? Functioning on the principle of  _ easier to ask forgiveness than permission _ , Ratchet sauntered toward the door and poked his helm out of medbay cautiously, only to be met with Jazz’s grinning face, his body hanging from a beam in the ceiling. 

“Not tryin’ t’ escape, are ya?” Jazz joked as he dropped down, landing on his pedes.Ratchet opened his mouth to reply, but Jazz waved it off. “Just jokin’, m’mech. We hit a current an’ good wind, made better time than even th’ Captain expected. Ya took longer t’ try an’ find out wha’ was goin’ on than I thought ya would.”

“Didn’t want to get on anyone’s bad side.” Ratchet responded grumpily. “I’m still on medbay arrest, if you haven’t forgotten.”   
  


Jazz shrugged. “Think that’s over with, m’mech. We’re here. Come on up an’ see it.”

Ratchet didn’t need to ask where  _ here _ was. Rodion, the pirate capitol. Jazz led Ratchet up to the deck, where the whole crew was either at the railing or on the rigging, looking off to the starboard side. Drift was at the helm, a grim expression on his face. When he saw Jazz and Ratchet, he waved them up to come stand next to him. When Ratchet drew close, he could see Drift’s optics. They weren’t bright, like they should be, instead, they were tired, a little sad, worried.  _ Young _ , his processor insisted again.

“Welcome to Rodion, Ratchet.” He said, looking off to starboard with the rest of the crew. “I hope it’s what you thought it would be.”

Ratchet followed his gaze. They were closer than Ratchet had anticipated. As a result, Rodion was not just a darker blue line on the horizon. Instead, it was an actual mass, with some of the larger buildings visible, specifically those near the docks.

Or, as Ratchet shaded his optics, the skeletons of buildings were visible. Three of the piers were wrecked, the last barely standing. A smoke pillar came up from somewhere inland.

Alarmed, Ratched looked around at the mechs clinging to the railing and rigging. 

There was no cheering, none of the usual merry at coming home. No. It was silent. The looks were not hungry, but sad, angry, despair in a few faces.

“We were attacked again.” Drift said, softly, as he turned the wheel a few degrees to the right, turning the ship so that they were on a better angle to be able to dock. 

Jazz nodded. “Looks like they’ve cleaned up. Probably seven or eight meta-cycles ago.

“Just after the Cascade.” Drift responded, mouth grim. “How’d they make it here so fast?”

Jazz just looked at Drift, who looked back, and Ratchet felt his plating crawl. 

“It was planned, wasn’t it?” Ratchet looked back at the island. This? This is what he was used for? To attack without provocation?

Jazz put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t beat yerself up about it, m’mech.” He said, softly. “Ya didn’t know.”

Ratchet shrugged off the hand, but didn’t speak again.

They stood there as the wind filled the sails, bringing them rapidly into shore. A brightly-colored figure was visible now, balanced out on that pier.

“Looks li’ Rodimus is on watch.” Drift vented in relief, bending the tension a little.

Ratchet looked at him. “Who’s Rodimus?” He asked, quietly.

Drift seemed lost in thought now, or maybe just concentration, so Jazz responded. 

“He’s the leader of th’ island. Was Captain o’ th’  _ Lost Light _ , but gave it t’ Drift after… well, after his co-captain had an accident.” Jazz fumbled a little. “He’s fine. Don’t worry. It’s jus’ tha’ Rodimus… didn’t want t’ be away after tha’. He’s also Drift’s amica.” Jazz added, as an afterthought.

Ratchet’s optics darted to Drift.  _ Amica _ ? His spark sank at the very thought. Great -- two hot-headed, too-young, religious mechs who hated him. Just what he needed in his functioning.

“Up sails.” Drift called out, making the mechs on the rigging scramble up, working quickly to reduce the ship’s speed. Soon, they were coasting only on their previous power.

“Out oars!” Jazz yelled, and the mechs that had been on the railing suddenly disappeared, followed by the splashing of oars into the rustwater, the ship slowing to a crawl, now less than half a mile from shore. They moved smoothly alongside the one, half-working dock, and with a call of "Up oars!" from Jazz, the ship was at a standstill. The brightly-colored mech from before, Rodimus, clambered up the side of the ship, flinging himself at Drift without any sort of grace, wrapping his arms around Drift’s neck, almost taking them off-balance. Drift caught them, burying his face into his amica’s neck, Rodimus doing the same.

Jazz pulled Ratchet gently away, taking him to stand at the railing, keeping an eye on the Captain and Rodimus.

“You okay, Roddy?” Drift’s voice was muffled by plating and cables.

“Yeah, bro.” Rodimus replied, equally muffled. “Missed ya. Glad you’re back.”

“How’s Ultra Magnus?”

“Alive. We didn’t lose anyone. Don’t worry about that.”

Drift vented in relief. “I’m glad.”

::Who’s the sexy medic?:: Rodimus suddenly switched to comms.

Drift’s vent turned to exasperation. “Really?” He asked out loud, confusing both Jazz and Ratchet, the former immediately relaxing with a grin as he realized what had happened, and waved it off. The latter was still confused, but Jazz just shook his helm, indicating that it was fine.

Drift felt Rodimus’s frame shake just a little with suppressed laughter. ::Come on, bro. I see it. I know you’re not blind yet.:: He separated from Drift, poking him in the chestplates. Drift raised an optic ridge. 

::He’s a prisoner.::

::Thought you didn’t  _ take _ prisoners.:: Rodimus’s laughter was clear over the comms.

::Shut up.::

::Never!: Rodimus’s face finally broke into a grin, though the sheer relief at Drift’s being back finally started leaking through their amica bond as they slowly opened it again. ::I hate that we have to turn that off.::

::Me too.:: Drift admitted. ::But you know why we do.::

::To keep the other from getting distracted. I know, I know. Now, introduce me to this medic you’ve seduced. How is he?::

:: _ Rodimus! _ :: Drift’s face turned blue, and Rodimus sniggered, turning around to Jazz and Ratchet. 

“Hey Jazz.” Rodimus held up a fist.

“Hey Rodimus.” Jazz smiled and fist-bumped Rodimus. “Everything okay?”

“Not remotely. But it’s under control.” Rodimus turned to Ratchet. “You’re new. I’m Rodimus.”

“Ratchet.”

“We pulled him off a Navy ship.” Drift finally managed, getting his face and voice under control again. “I’ll explain later.” His tone was firm, and Rodimus groaned.

“Make it juicy, bro.” Then even his voice grew serious. “I hope you brought extra food and medical supplies. And something to build with. The attack cut into our extra supplies badly. We’re running low on some essentials.”

Drift nodded. “We raided the ships that attacked us. It was a good haul. And if you’ve got injured, Ratchet here is actually a decent medic. From the Prime’s court.”

Rodimus didn’t even blink. “Believe me, we need the help. Get tied up and come onshore. You need to assess the damage for yourself. Actually, if I could borrow Jazz, that'd be cool.” 

Jazz looked to Drift, who nodded. Rodimus, catching the exchange, gave a two-fingered salute, sliding down the side of the ship to the dock and moving back inland, quickly disappearing from view. Jazz followed after Rodimus, with a bit more grace, but no less speed.

As they left, Drift raised his voice. “Tie off and start unloading!” 

He looked to Ratchet, lowering his voice before he spoke again.

“Ready to see what Sentinel does to those he starts wars with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday...Thursday... same thing, right? :p
> 
> Next chapter will probably be fairly depressing, if the muse works with me on this. I apologize in advance if that is what happens.


End file.
